


Virtue and Venom

by PTlikesTea



Category: Hey Arnold!
Genre: Anachronistic, F/M, Historical AU, history tropes, slow build romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-05-20 05:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14888667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PTlikesTea/pseuds/PTlikesTea
Summary: In the early sixteenth century, Helga struggles to keep her family's estate from being repossessed while she waits for her sister to secure a wealthy husband. Arnold is a lovelorn prince trying to convince a pious foreign princess to marry him. When their paths cross, grudging respect turns to friendship turns into something else entirely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Virtue and Venom**

 

**Note:** I took a poll as to what I should write for the HA fandom once Missing was finished, and the votes were overwhelmingly in favour of ye olde medieval romance. That's not to say I won't end up writing the other option eventually, but for now this is my project. Although it is quite heavily inspired by Ever After, it is very much its own egg. Also, the language used will be deliberately anachronistic, because writing in old/middle english is a step too far even for me (unless you have a strong desire to see 'Helge, wilt þū mid mē sealtian?' in which case, you may write your own fanfic and I will likely read it.)

 

Also, I would like to mention that I now have original work freely available on my archive.

 

https://ptlikestea.dreamwidth.org/

…..

 

Dawn had already broken by the time Helga woke up, the smoke from the mostly-dead fire suddenly bringing on a cough. Blinking sleepily in the dim light of the morning, she wondered why the cockerel hadn't crowed to wake her up.

 

_Oh yeah..._

 

She'd sold him.

 

With a groan, she got up from the floor she'd inadvertently fallen asleep on. Her smock was covered in blotches from the ash of the fireplace, and the one that was hung to dry in the pantry was still slightly damp. Still, she peeled off the soiled one and tugged the damp one on, lit a new fire in the stove and put on some water to boil. It would be a good two hours before anyone else in the house woke up, but there was no harm in getting things started early.

 

Her kirtle and robe hung by the door and she put them on, but didn't bother with a farthingale or even stockings and shoes. The morning air was just about warm enough, and it wasn't like anyone would see her walking around barefoot. No-one important anyway.

 

The Pataki estate was vast, even though it was clearly in a state of decay. As Helga walked the trail down to the hermitage, she took note of all the things that needed fixing.

 

_Four fenceposts down._

 

_Ragwort on the tilling soil._

 

_Rotten oak tree near the barn._

 

_New holes in the barn roof, probably rats._

 

“Hi!”

 

The cheery greeting came from just outside the hermitage. It shouldn't have surprised Helga that Phoebe would be up early, with or without a cockerel to rouse her.

 

“Hey Pheebs,” she said with a bone-tired wave.

 

“Do you need the rent today?” Phoebe asked with a little worried frown she tried to hide.

 

“No, no,” Helga said, waving her off. “Just bread, if you have any.”

 

“Of course,” Phoebe agreed, beckoning her into the hermitage.

 

It was crude, but Phoebe and her mother had managed to make it look homely in their own way. The cave was divided into three separate chambers by thick curtains and their old stove sat in a hollow near the entrance so that the smoke wouldn't billow around their living space. The sleeping pallets were stacked up in a corner with their pillows and blankets, and their looms along with the fabrics they wove took up most of the space during the day.

 

Phoebe reached into the stove and took out two loaves of bread.

 

“I churned some butter, too, if you want it,” she offered.

 

“No, it's wasted on them,” Helga declined. “Sell it, or eat it yourself.”

 

“You should take a little, for yourself,” Phoebe's mother called from her spot at the loom. “You're too thin.”

 

“If I had some, I'd have to explain where I got it,” Helga said. “Seriously, keep it.”

 

They insisted she take two eggs with her, and by the time she got back to the kitchen Helga could hear her father making noises from upstairs. She dropped the eggs into the boiling water along with a shank of ham and set about fixing her hair.

 

…..

 

“Where's your coif?” Olga asked when she finally made it down to the breakfast table.

 

“I have no idea,” Helga retorted.

 

“You're sixteen, you can't go out with your hair loose like that,” her sister moaned. “What will people say?”

 

“I don't think anyone will care that much.”

 

“She's right, Olga,” her father growled over a mouthful of ham. “You have to look respectable.”

 

Inwardly, she seethed. Somehow they were still under the impression that their breakfast had been delivered to them by servants they no longer had, and didn't raise any objections when Helga had been the one to bring them water for washing and help them dress, but suddenly they were concerned that she wasn't covering her head.

 

She had worn her hair tied up in two long tails since she was a child, and saw no reason to stop. The coif was itchy, and she wasn't a married woman so there was no real reason to cover her head when nobody stopped by the estate anymore anyway.

 

“I'll find it after breakfast,” she said, with no intention to actually do it.

 

“I think we should have duck this evening,” her mother said vaguely. “Tell the cook, won't you?”

 

_Where am I going to get a duck at this time of year?_

 

“Sure,” Helga mumbled.

 

Miriam would probably forget by noon in any case. They had one scrawny chicken in the larder, and lots of vegetables to stretch it out with. As if any of them could even tell the difference between chicken and duck once it was on a plate...

 

“I am to be introduced a week from now,” Olga announced over a dainty sip of her water. “My old friend Jane Pomfrey...she's Lady Jane Westbourne now....her husband has a friend who is not betrothed.”

 

“Oh, that's wonderful dear!” Miriam exclaimed with more enthusiasm than she'd been able to muster all month.

 

“Who is this guy?” Bob asked. “What's his title?”

 

“Lord Henry Barker,” Olga proclaimed proudly. “He's the second son of Lord Edward Barker.”

 

“Is he rich?” Helga asked.

 

“Helga! What a thing to ask!” Olga scolded, as though they weren't all thinking it.

 

She rolled her eyes as the rest of her family gushed over this latest possible fancy marriage in a long line of fancy possible marriages Olga had talked about since her debut at court. Helga occupied herself by mentally calculating how much she'd get if she sold off the candlesticks.

 

…..

 

“It's beautiful, isn't it?”

 

Arnold was staring at the portrait as if it was the second coming of Venus. Gerald tilted his head and squinted; as far as he could see it was an average portrait of a pleasant-looking young girl dressed in an austere black gown. Her hair was curled and pinned out to the sides in the usual Spanish style. The rather large white crucifix she wore was the key focal point of the portrait.

 

“It's nice,” Gerald agreed blandly. “But...that's a really big cross. Just sayin'.”

 

“I know, but she probably has to wear it for portraits,” Arnold reasoned.

 

Gerald sighed. Arnold had an unfortunate blind spot when it came to situations like this. First that entirely unsuitable Portuguese princess and now Infanta Lila of Spain, a girl who was notorious for turning down proposals from protestants. Supposedly she was so pious she wore a hair shirt to bed every night.

 

“She did write back,” Arnold said. “Almost all of my letters got a response.”

 

Arnold's optimism tended to cloud his judgment, 'almost all' likely meant the Infanta probably wrote back twice. All the same, that same optimism let Arnold's subjects accept Gerald himself as a close friend of the prince, despite his Moorish ancestry. Very few people could deny the prince something he wanted.

 

He was not going to get this princess, though. That was for damn sure.

 

“The commandant told me we can cross the border at the eastern vale,” Arnold told him. “After that it's not far to the abbey. She's going to be there for another week at least.”

 

“Arnold, no,” Gerald sighed. “Just no. She's going to scream if you just turn up at her door, and then all her ladies will scream too, and if we manage to make it back over the border the Spanish will turn it into a story about how you tried to kidnap her and compromised her virtue.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Arnold moaned. “I'm not going to creep in the window or anything...I'll keep a respectful distance.”

 

“No,” Gerald said, point blank.

 

…..

 

“So remember when I said this was never going to work?” Gerald hissed over at Arnold.

 

“Yeah,” Arnold admitted mournfully.

 

They hadn't even made it past the border before bandits on the trail picked up on two young men traveling together, one of them a Moor, both of them richly attired. Now they were tramping across the countryside, hands tied behind their backs, robbed of everything but the clothes on their backs.

 

“Okay look,” Gerald whispered. “They're going to stop soon, and when they do I'm going to make a break for it. While they're trying to figure out who goes after me, you run the opposite way. Then once you've ditched them, find somewhere to hide. I'll bring back some men to find you.”

 

It was a good plan; Gerald was well-known for having the speed and endurance of a horse, the same qualities that made his father such a renowned warrior. Arnold did not have these gifts, and was grateful that Gerald had taken his shortcomings into account.

 

Their bandit kidnappers were clearly unused to having prisoners, luckily for them. They didn't even think to tie them to a tree or something when they did stop, and so when Gerald made a run for it they panicked. While they were arguing, Arnold broke away too and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Behind him he could hear the shouting of the men chasing him, and in his haste he tripped and tumbled down a hill.

 

When he finally lurched to a halt, he was staring up at the baffled blue eyes of a young girl. He'd fallen right at her feet.

 

“What the...” she exclaimed, before being cut off by his pursuers bursting through the undergrowth.

 

“Please help me?” Arnold begged, though how exactly he expected her to help him he didn't know.

 

To his surprise, she nodded.

 

In a movement that was astonishingly graceful, she crouched to pull him to his feet while simultaneously picking up a large rock and hurling it at one of the bandits. It caught the man right in the middle of his forehead, knocking him on his back. Arnold was barely standing before another rock went hurtling towards the other man, catching him in the stomach and bringing him to his knees.

 

“This way,” the girl hissed at Arnold, dragging him off towards the forest.

 

He let himself be dragged over a seemingly random expanse of hillocks, forest, streams and marsh. The hem of the girl's gown and his own breeches were soaked and covered in mud by the time she judged it safe for them to stop and catch their breath. Arnold sank down onto a tree stump, gasping for air.

 

“The forest is a maze beyond the valley,” the girl told him. “They won't be able to follow us without getting lost.”

 

“Yes,” Arnold gasped. “Thank you...I owe you my life.”

 

“Yes, you do,” she replied, flipping one of her long pigtails over her shoulder. “And who are you?”

 

Despite himself, he grinned. He hadn't seen anyone with that hairstyle, or indeed uncovered hair, that wasn't a child. It was oddly charming.

 

He supposed she was a peasant girl, going by her familiarity with the land. Her gown was a faded pink, mended with patches and darns, and her kirtle peeked out over the gaps in the lacing. The skirt was shapeless, betraying that she didn't wear a farthingale underneath.

 

He hesitated to tell her who he was. If she knew he was the prince (and it was clear that she hadn't recognized him so she couldn't be a member of the court) she might turn up at the palace demanding repayment, and then Arnold's grandparents would find out what he'd been trying to do.

 

“I'm...Lord Arnold,” he said. His full title was His Royal Highness Prince Augustus Philip Joseph Arnold the Fourth, but there was no need to tell her that. “And how should I address you?”

 

“Helga,” she shrugged.

 

“All right, Lady Helga...”

 

“What were you doing out here?” she said, her eyes narrowed. “The borders are teeming with bandits, everyone knows that.”

 

_Obviously not everyone_.

 

“I was on my way to visit someone when my companion and I were taken,” Arnold explained. “He ran off in the other direction to raise the alarm. What were you doing out here, if this place is so dangerous?”

 

“It's common land,” she said with a scowl. “I've been walking it for years. Even the bandits know to stay out of the forest.”

 

“Well, Lady Helga, if you would be so kind I would ask you not to speak of this to anyone,” Arnold asked.

 

“Fine,” she shrugged. “It's none of my business anyway.”

 

He could have been insulted, but instead Arnold found himself feeling intrigued. At court the women fawned all over him and it was off-putting. It was refreshing to be around somebody who couldn't care less about who he was. Not to mention she had an excellent throwing arm.

 

“Well then, I'll be off. Thank you for your help, once again.”

 

He turned and walked in the direction he thought was north, only for her to call back to him.

 

“Do you know where you're going?”

 

Cursing under his breath, and with his back still turned, he shook his head.

 

“Fine, I'll lead you out,” she sighed.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Virtue and Venom**

 

**Chapter Two**

 

… **..**

 

 

Helga knew, from as young as five years old, that they were in trouble. One day they had a cook and then suddenly she was gone and the scullery maid was the one cooking for them. They'd had six horses, then within less than a week they had three. The fixtures of the house slowly became shabbier and the kitchen garden was overrun with weeds. The acres of land they owned weren't being tilled.

 

Through it all, her parents and her sisters acted normally. Olga still had fine brocade gowns to wear at court, Miriam had enough wine to get her through the day and Bob had enough clout to constantly move around different houses to sweet-talk barons and counts with marriageable sons. If they even realized how bad things were getting, they showed no signs.

 

_Except..._

 

Except during certain nights, Olga could be heard sobbing over her fine gowns, or Miriam would have just a bit too much wine and start talking about how they were going to starve, or Bob would be back a week late and well-fed enough for them to know he had been living on someone else's money for a while.

 

Still, Helga was a child. What could she do?

 

The last servant to leave was the old wet-nurse that had been hired to take care of Helga, who stayed on to raise her when she was too old to need a wet-nurse when it became clear that nobody else was going to take care of her. In the end, the house couldn't support even her tiny salary and she had to find work elsewhere.

 

Helga had been despondent since Nan left, and in her own childish mind she vowed to find a way to bring her back. There weren't many ways for a child to make money, but she'd have to do _something._

 

… _.._

 

Arnold bent at the waist, gasping for breath and clutching his aching legs. The pigtailed girl stopped just in front of him, smirking a little. The long walk hadn't taken anything out of her, though Arnold felt like his legs were going to fall off.

 

“There's a fallen tree over there,” she said, nodding behind him. “We can take a break.”

 

Gratefully, Arnold sank onto the log.

 

“How much further is it?” he asked, dreading the answer.

 

“About three miles,” she shrugged.

 

Arnold groaned. It would be dark soon, and he had dragged this peasant girl miles from home with his half-witted romantic plan.

 

“There's a road half a mile that way,” she told him, pointing towards the thickest wooded area in the forest. “It's somewhat busy, there's a town nearby. Knightsbridge. A passing cart could give you a lift if you have coin.”

 

“I do have some coin,” he admitted, thankful that he had taken Gerald's advice and hidden some on his person that the brigands hadn't found.

 

She declared their break over in the next minute and guided him through the forest. Brambles and jagged tree branches tore at his clothes and scratched his skin; he was going to look awful when he got back.

 

“It's not too late to go the long way,” she said, pulling back a tree branch to let him pass.

 

“No, I've been lost for quite long enough, thanks,” he grumbled.

 

“What were you doing out here, anyway?” she asked.

 

“I was trying to pay a visit to a woman,” he answered. He did;t need to explain she was a princess.

 

“You risked crossing the border and getting robbed for a woman?” she said with a small laugh. “She must be the world's most beautiful woman.”

 

“She's very beautiful,” he agreed. “It would have been worth it if I had made it.”

 

“How are you going to explain what happened to you?”

 

“Oh, she didn't know I was coming....”

 

“What?”

 

Helga gaped at him, amusement dancing in her eyes.

 

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he explained, subdued.

 

“Surprise or not, you wrote to her guardian, right?”

 

“Well, she didn't exactly have one...I don't think the nuns would have let her see any letter I sent...”

 

“Nuns? She's in a _convent?”_

 

Helga broke off into gales of laughter. Despite himself, Arnold's cheeks burned.

 

“You know an awful lot about courting for a peasant,” he grumbled.

 

“I know enough to know that convents aren't a great source of eligible women,” she chuckled.

 

“It's complicated,” he retorted.

 

Helga was still laughing quietly to herself when they finally got out of the forest and onto a small dirt road. Thankfully, Arnold could just about see the castle in the distance. Someone in Knightsbridge would send word to the garrison and they would come to collect him. Even better, a farmer's cart was making its way there just behind them.

 

Helga stopped the donkey pulling the cart and negotiated with the driver for a bit.

 

“He says he can drop you off at the food market,” she told Arnold. “So I'm going to leave you in his hands. Think you can make it from here?”

 

“Yes,” he sighed, gratefully. “Thank you for your assistance, I am in your debt.”

 

She shrugged, and turned around to walk back the way they came. But the sun was just about to set, and she was still a good half-day's walk from where she found him.

 

“Miss Helga!” he shouted, after asking the cart driver to wait for a moment.

 

“Don't tell me you lost your money?” she groaned.

 

“Not at all,” he said, taking out a purse. “It's almost nightfall. Take this and get yourself a room at the inn. It's not safe to walk home in the dark.”

 

She laughed at him, but she took the money all the same. Arnold watched her disappear back into the forest from the back of the cart, until he couldn't see her anymore.

 

…..

 

She should have gone to an inn. There was one in Knightsbridge, and another in Hollyfort, where she'd be going anyway to take the shortcut home. But cold, hungry and tired as she was now, she had a better use for the money.

 

_Ten gold coins. When did I last see ten gold coins?_

 

She'd never seen that much money.

 

She took five of them and hid the other five under her kirtle. With any luck, she wouldn't need more than five.

 

Hollyfort barely counted as a town, but what it was best known for was its debtor's prison. Many a poor farmer had found himself in those cells when a bad harvest hit. It was past midnight when she got there, but the night warden was still on duty.

 

“I've come to pay a debt,” she announced as she walked in.

 

The warden looked her up and down. Her gown was stained with mud and her kirtle had little holes where branches had snagged them. She didn't look like much, she knew that.

 

“Whose debt?” he asked.

 

“Heyerdahl.”

 

Despite taking his wife's family name, Phoebe's father was still markedly foreign and though he had never incurred a debt in his own name, his old employer had left him to take the fall for his unpaid taxes. Phoebe and her mother hadn't a hope of raising enough to bail him out.

 

“Four gold coins,” the warden sneered. “You got that?”

 

“Yes, as it happens.”

 

She took out the coins and spread them on the table. The warden bit one of them; he looked suspicious.

 

“Where did you get these, then?” he asked.

 

“Does it matter?” Helga shot back.

 

“Suppose not. Heyerdahl! You're free to go!”

 

Phoebe's father didn't understand until the warden unlocked the door and pushed him in Helga's general direction. He was wretchedly pale and thin, with huge circles under his eyes, but when he saw her he was lit up from the inside. A babble of gratitude poured from his mouth, unintelligible but unmistakable.

 

On the way home, she whittled down a stick for him to walk with and they took frequent breaks so he could rest. Even walking was a strain for him. When Helga's home was in sight, the sun was just starting to rise.

 

Phoebe was already outside the hermitage, gathering dried grass to stoke the fire under the stove. Her father burst into tears when he saw her, so it was left to Helga to shout to her. When Phoebe looked up, the dried grass tumbled to the ground and her hand flew to her mouth. Her mother emerged from the cave to see what was wrong, and she too gaped as though she were seeing a ghost.

 

But then the weakness that had held Mr Heyerdahl back broke and he threw down his stick, ran as fast as he could on his shaky legs into the arms of his wife and daughter. They laughed, they cried, they hugged so tight it was like they were afraid to let go again.

 

…..

 

“I snuck in and put a pot on the stove,” Phoebe whispered.

 

Her father had fallen into a deep but comfortable sleep and she didn't want to wake him, but she made sure that distracted as she was she warned Helga about what might be waiting for her back home.

 

“Miriam said something about duck,” Helga mumbled. “I don't think she would have remembered...what time was it when you put it on the stove?”

 

“It was close to sunset,” Phoebe answered. “Nobody was waiting in the dining room.”

 

“Thanks, I think I'm still in for an earful,” Helga sighed.

 

“What happened to you?” Phoebe asked.

 

“Well, to make a long story short, some rich kid got himself in trouble in the woods, I helped him out and he gave me some gold to thank me.”

 

“Don't get me wrong, we're grateful,” Phoebe said. “But you could have used that money yourself...”

 

“For what? Replacing the candlesticks?” Helga laughed. “Look, once he's back to his full strength he can help me with the tilling. So it's an investment.”

 

“Whatever you say,” Phoebe said with a small smile.

 

Phoebe and her family were the closest the Pataki household had to servants, but Helga's family had no idea the Heyerdahls were living in the hermitage. Nobody respectable would rent a house to an Asian man and his Jewish wife, no matter how hard they worked, but Helga offered them the hermitage for a pittance rent and in return for keeping the kitchen stocked. She was only ten when she made that deal, and for six years it had kept the Patakis afloat without them knowing.

 

“This rich kid,” Phoebe mused. “Any idea who he is?”

 

“I dunno, some baron or something,” Helga shrugged. “He was trying to see some convent girl and got caught at the border.”

 

“It wasn't Helmsly and his men, was it?”

 

“I don't think so.”

 

“ _Helga_ ,” Phoebe said insistently. “Did you see who was leading them?”

 

“No, I just saw two goons and then we lost them,” Helga assured her.

 

“Okay,” Phoebe sighed, relieved. “Don't give him any reason to come after you.”

 

“I don't intend to.”

 

…..

 

She pulled off her muddy gown as soon as she walked into the house, tossing it in the corner to wash later. Her kirtle followed, but the smock was still in good nick so she left that on. Exhaustion hit her like a rock to the head, and though she could have used some bread or even just a drink of water, she stretched out on the straw mattress across from the stove.

 

And then, of course, the bell calling for assistance rang.

 

_Olga. She would be up this early._

 

Groaning, Helga lifted herself off the mattress and trudged upstairs to start the day.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Virtue and Venom**

 

**Chapter Three**

 

Note: As I have a lot of weddings to attend and jobs to do this season, updates may slow down for a while. I hope to be back to normal by July.

 

…..

 

Helga was young when she realized they were in trouble. She was just a little older when she realized that _she, specifically,_ was in trouble.

 

Her father had brought a man back to the house for dinner. Miriam had to cook, making some sort of mumbled excuse about the cook not being around, the beef was underdone and the potatoes boiled into an unpalatable mush. Nevertheless, the man ate everything he was given, and that was a clear sign he was not a man of means.

 

Helga could not recall his name or even much about him beyond the dirt under his nails and the wrinkles on his face. She remembered distantly a conversation about what he did for a living, and it was some mumbled words about some sort of land maintenance. What he was doing there, among the social-climbing Patakis, was a mystery.

 

Up until Bob asked him what he thought of Helga, and mentioned that she was healthy and strong.

 

Bob had always regarded her as just another mouth to feed, but it hadn't occurred to her that he saw her as a _resource_ until then. He wouldn't consider anything less than a titled nobleman for Olga, but Helga could be pawned off on whatever random peasant he found on his way home.

 

Fortunately, the man seemed uninterested in taking a little girl as a wife and he left. It would only be a matter of time before Bob found someone else until he'd gotten rid of his extra child.

 

Helga had no real options. Getting work as a scullery maid was for older girls. Leaving home meant going straight into the workhouse, or worse. There was really only one job available for an unskilled young woman in the city, and it didn't bear thinking about.

 

In the end, the only way to keep the roof over her head and keep her father from selling her away was to make herself useful to the head of the household. From the age of nine, she took over the running of the house, from the most basic cleaning and cooking to using what little education she'd been given to manage their taxes and income. In between, she sold whatever she could that would not be noticed as missing and raised their small crops to stock the pantry.

 

She was able to breathe a little easier once the Heyerdahls moved into the hermitage. The Pataki family, as far as she knew, had not had an actual hermit living in the hermitage so it was a holdover from the previous family that owned the estate (who had lost the place due to treason about two hundred years before the first Pataki out of Russia won the property in a bet). Bob and Miriam didn't know anything about the sprawling acres they owned, and Olga didn't like to go outside for too long in case she got a much dreaded freckle.

 

The Heyerdahls paid a pittance for the hermitage (although it was cozy and comfortable and Helga could easily have charged more) but they made up for it by taking over the farming duties, even keeping some chickens, two sheep and a small dairy cow. Stocking the pantry was much easier with their help, and anything they produced in excess they could sell at the open market.

 

When the rest of the Patakis were back living the lives they were more accustomed to, Bob stopped looking at her like she was a pig to be fattened up for market, and she was able to breathe more easily.

 

…..

 

Helga managed to find an hour to lie down between lunch and dinner, but the whole time she was eating she couldn't stop yawning. Olga's droning on and on about this man she was due to be introduced to wasn't helping.

 

“...Josepha says that the flute is far more elegant for a bride, but the harpsichord is traditional and he's quite a traditional man, from what I've heard. His family is very old, his estate has been standing for over...”

 

Bob and Miriam were nodding along but they probably weren't listening either. Olga had been talking for hours. Helga allowed her mind to wander back to the boy she'd helped in the forest, the failed convent romantic. Had he made his way home safely? How angry had his parents been at the state he'd returned home in?

 

“...where is our harpsichord, anyway?”

 

Her attention was jolted back onto Olga.

 

“I should have some practice, I went to the study but it doesn't seem to be there anymore,” Olga said with a confused little frown. “Where is it?”

 

Helga could feel Bob staring at her.

 

“It's being repaired,” Helga said, racking her brain for a plausible excuse. “Mice got at the strings, it didn't sound right.”

 

“Oh,” Olga said, clearly disappointed but accepting the excuse.

 

The harpsichord had been sold five years before, and probably chopped up for firewood. It hadn't been a particularly good one anyway, and always sounded a bit creaky.

 

“Most men prefer the flute anyway,” Helga told her. “They say only widows play the harpsichord.”

 

“I suppose you're right,” Olga preened. “Perhaps I should practice that instead...”

 

Crisis over, Helga went back to daydreaming. Just two hours more and she could get a good night's sleep.

 

…..

 

“What, exactly, were you thinking?” the king asked, not angry so much as just tired.

 

“I wasn't, really,” Arnold admitted.

 

“Clearly.”

 

Arnold had spent the night in an inn, in the town where thankfully no-one recognized him as the crown prince, and been woken at dawn to be dragged back to the palace and face his grandfather, covered in the dirt and grime his little adventure had left him with. King Philip sighed loudly and dramatically when he saw him.

 

“All this for a Catholic,” Phillip grumbled. “Are you trying to start a war?”

 

“No, of course not,” Arnold placated. “I don't think her people would mind, it's not like I'm asking her to convert....”

 

“No, but they'll want _us_ to convert,” Philip growled. “And if we don't, they'll sue for annulment or they'll start a succession war with whatever children you have. That's if you manage to have any children with _that_ line of the family...”

 

Arnold winced. Princess Lila's family line were well-known for having trouble conceiving heirs to the throne. Lila herself was an only child.

 

“You could have ended up on a ship for ransom,” Philip groaned, leaning back and rubbing his temples under his crown.

 

 _Like your father,_ he didn't have to add.

 

As far as either of them knew, Arnold's parents were still with the corsairs that captured them after the crusades. Kidnapping the crown prince was bad enough, catching the wife who had journeyed with him to support him was disastrous. It was just a matter of luck that they'd agreed to leave their son with the wet nurse.

 

“How did you get away?” Philip asked, when that strained look left his face.

 

“A peasant girl who knew the land helped me,” Arnold explained. “She threw rocks at my pursuers.”

 

_And then she laughed at me for trying to break into a convent._

 

“Thank the lord for that,” Phil muttered. “Did you compensate her?”

 

“Ten gold pieces,” Arnold replied.

 

“Should have been fifty. She saved the royal line. Throw in an estate to keep her sweet. And she didn't recognize you?”

 

“I don't think so. She seemed happy enough with ten.”

 

“Hm. Well, if you ever run into her again, compensate her properly.”

 

 _That's unlikely,_ Arnold thought.

 

…..

 

“Pheebs! PHEEBS!”

 

“I'm here,” Phoebe said, wiping a knife on her apron. “What's wrong?”

 

“Everything's wrong,” Helga groaned.

 

“Okay,” Phoebe sighed. “Come on in and tell me about it.”

 

She wouldn't let Helga say a word until she'd sat by the fire and taken at least two sips of tea from the kettle. Aside from stocking the pantry and bringing in a little money, Phoebe's most valuable asset was that she was always calm.

 

“We got a missive this morning,” Helga explained, staring into her cup as if it contained the source of her doom. “Three missed payments.”

 

“How?” Phoebe asked. “You've always put that money away for the taxes....”

 

“Bob,” Helga said. “I trusted him to make the payments in person. I didn't think he was _that_ stupid...”

 

“I have about thirteen shillings...” Phoebe began, rummaging in a small tin box.

 

“No, no, I'm not going to take your money,” Helga said.

 

“But if you lose the estate, we lose the hermitage,” Phoebe reminded her.

 

“I know, I just....I'll think of something, okay? I can get the money, we still have some things in the house I can sell, but I'm not old enough to file the payments.”

 

“Olga is,” Phoebe suggested. “Could you ask her to file them?”

 

“No, she'd freak out and go crying to Bob,” Helga said. “Although...Pheebs, you're a genius! They don't know what Olga looks like!”

 

“You'll have to tie up your hair,” Phoebe told her, having grasped Helga's plan within seconds of her coming up with it.

 

…..

 

Three days, a solid marble statue from the old parlour sold for fifty shillings and a borrowed new gown and matching kirtle from Olga's wardrobe later, Helga managed to get a lift from a fruitseller's cart most of the way to Knightsbridge. She walked the remaining two miles, holding the green brocade over her knees to keep it out of the mud. Phoebe had braided her hair and tucked it under a coif, and although it looked nice it felt tight and uncomfortable on her head.

 

 _Once I get this over with I can walk home in my chemise,_ she thought sourly.

 

Knightsbridge was bustling when she arrived, including around the magistrate's building. She clocked the glances the men were giving her; a high-class girl out in public, unaccompanied. Easy prey. Her hands balled into fists even as they stepped to one side to let her pass.

 

The magistrate raised an eyebrow as she introduced herself as Olga Pataki.

 

“Why has your father not come to bring these to me himself?” he asked. “Or your husband.”

 

“I am unmarried,” she replied, in that haughty-but-achingly-polite way Olga affected when speaking to someone of noble birth. “And my father is too unwell to make the journey, I said I would go in his stead.”

 

“Three missed payments,” the magistrate hummed. “That is not usual...”

 

“You!”

 

_Oh no...._

 

It would be him. Convent-raid boy.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, oblivious to the fact that she was trying very hard not to look at him.

 

“The young Madame Pataki has come to pay the taxes on her family's estate,” the magistrate explained. Helga was _very_ glad he didn't use her first name.

 

“And...why are you stopping her?” convert-boy asked.

 

“Well, it's not usual...” the magistrate hummed again.

 

“If she has the money, take the payment.”

 

The magistrate grimaced, but he took the money and put his seal on the form, and that was that.

 

Convent-boy insisted on escorting her out, past all the men who were hanging around the front of the building.

 

“Forgive me,” he said after they were on the outskirts of Knightsbridge. “I mistook you for a peasant when I met you.”

 

“An easy mistake to make,” she laughed uneasily. “I wouldn't exactly wear my best gown for wandering around the woods.”

 

“I guess not,” Arnold agreed. “Is your carriage near here?”

 

“Uh, no,” she said, racking her brain. “It threw a wheel...I got a lift from a neighbour, but...”

 

“Oh. Well, I'd offer you a lift but...”

 

“That's okay, I can hitch a ride,” she shrugged.

 

“That's not exactly safe,” Arnold said with a frown.

 

“It's fine,” she demurred.

 

“No, it's not,” he insisted. “But...listen, I owe you a lot more than ten gold pieces for what you did for me. How about I rent you a horse? And I can escort you at least part of the way...”

 

How could she say no? It was a long walk in a dress that didn't belong to her, it would be getting dark soon, and those men lingering around the magistrate's were watching in the distance.

 

“All right,” she agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Virtue and Venom**

 

**Chapter Four**

 

…..

 

Apologies for the long delay, two trips abroad and working on the sequel to my novel have kept me a bit distracted and busy. I hope to get back to updating on a regular basis.

 

…..

 

When Helga was eight years old, they ran into trouble. Taxes had been left unpaid, and to make up the debt Bob took what little money they had in store, leaving them with no food, no coal for the fire and nothing else.

 

Helga just about managed to get the pantry stocked with what little harvest the fields brought in, what she could scavenge from the forest, what she could borrow from the neighbours and anything else she could find. It didn't make much; after her parents and Olga were fed there was nothing left for herself but scraps.

 

On one particularly stormy day, out of desperation she took some old silk drapes and an antique brooch to Knightsbridge to pawn. Her winter cloak was full of holes, likewise her boots, but once she had some coin for her troubles she hardly felt it. She hadn't eaten properly for three days, and doubted she could make the journey back without something to keep her going, so she stopped off at the bakers for a loaf of bread to eat on the way home.

 

She hadn't gotten two bites into the bread before a carriage took a sharp turn onto the road she was walking on and one of the horses knocked into her. She landed in a puddle, bread and all. Watching the muddy filth soak into the bread she'd walked miles to get hit her worse than a punch would have. She didn't even attempt to get out of the puddle; she burst into hysterical tears right there and then.

 

“Oh, oh God I'm so sorry....please don't cry!”

 

The voice was unmistakably a child's voice, but sounded practically angelic. Or maybe it was just because it was the kindest thing that had been said to her in who knows how long. The owner of the voice pulled her gently to her feet, out of the puddle, into the shelter of the carriage door. Someone from inside the carriage scolded the child.

 

“Well, it was our fault she got knocked over, isn't it? We were going too fast!” the child replied.

 

Helga tried to rub the mud and tears from her eyes, but her vision was still blurry. She could make out vague details about the child; a boy, a little shorter than she was, yellow hair, slightly oversized head. Richly attired in a cloak with no holes.

 

“Give her some coins for her trouble and send her on her way,” the person in the carriage scolded.

 

Helga felt a purse being placed into her hands, and then the boy removed his fine cloak and wrapped it around her. It was thin enough, but it might as well have been made of the thickest wool for the difference it made to her.

 

“I'm really sorry,” the boy said again. “I hope you get home safe.”

 

And then he was gone.

 

With the coin she had been given, she was able to buy a cup of hot wine and a pie after she dried herself off. She bought two more loaves of bread and wrapped them up in her useless old cloak, wearing the new one home.

 

Two weeks later, the Heyerdahls moved in and the weather changed to allow better harvesting. Helga's life grew easier. The cloak hung on a peg in the kitchen long after she'd outgrown it.

 

She knew, even then, that she would probably never marry unless sold into it to pay some debt, and would never make a good match for any man. Still, she loved that boy with all her heart, and always would.

 

…..

 

The pilfered green brocade frock was getting uncomfortable. Helga wasn't used to wearing such heavy confining clothes, and the awkwardness of waiting around in front of the stables while a horse was rented for her by some noble's son had her on edge. Under her coif, her temples throbbed.

 

“They didn't have much to choose from,” Arnold said as he led two horses out of the stable. “A palfrey and a rouncey, and they're both kind of old...”

 

“If they have four legs and a working head, they'll do,” Helga said, taking the rouncey's reins.

 

She climbed into the saddle and realized too late by the stunned look on Arnold's face that he had bent to help her up, as a good gentleman should.

 

“Sorry,” she stammered. “There's not usually anyone around to help me onto my horse, so...”

 

Arnold laughed, rubbed the back of his neck.

 

“Force of habit,” he said with a shrug. “I suppose it's kind of patronizing, really...”

 

He clambered into his own saddle and they set off. For the first few moments, there was awkward silence. Helga blamed the coif and gown; when they spoke before, he'd assumed she was a peasant girl and spoke freely. Now he had to treat her like a lady.

 

“Forgive me for being so...casual with you before, my lady,” Arnold began. “I didn't realize...”

 

“Forget it,” Helga groaned. “I might be wearing this fancy gown but I'm much more at home running around in the forest. Just treat me as you would any peasant.”

 

“Well, that's the thing,” he replied. “I don't meet many peasants, let alone peasant girls. I don't really know how to treat them. I know how to treat noble girls...”

 

“Noble girls like all that chivalrous crap,” Helga chuckled. “Huge waste of time, I think.”

 

“You have to admit it comes in useful,” Arnold said. “Otherwise men could take liberties with you...”

 

“Are you planning to take liberties with me in this forest?” Helga teased.

 

Blushing furiously, Arnold shook his head and she laughed at him.

 

“Well then, it's a waste of time. All it does is stop girls from knowing who to trust. You can hide a lot behind chivalry.”

 

 _Helmsly is very chivalrous_ she left unsaid. _Right up until he's taking liberties in the forest. And after._

 

“That's a rather bleak view,” Arnold laughed weakly. “It sounds like you've known some characters.”

 

“If by characters you mean absolute bastards, then yes, yes I have,” she shot back. “And I suppose you act the perfect gentleman to every girl you meet? Even strange peasants you meet in the forest?”

 

“Well, yes,” he replied. “I...don't really know any other way to treat them.”

 

“Oh, come on, I bet you've met some absolute shrews in your time. You're talking to one now.”

 

“I wouldn't call you a shrew, my lady,” he chuckled. “A little sharp-tongued but it's not unpleasant. If I've met any shrews, they've kept it well hidden.”

 

“Good manners cover a multitude of sins,” Helga responded. “And don't call me 'my lady.' Just Helga is fine.”

 

“As you wish. Helga it is.”

 

With the oppressive air of chivalry done away with, they chatted pleasantly about nothing in particular. Right up until the rouncey decided she didn't like the look of a tree stump in the road and fretted.

 

“Oh, come on,” Helga prodded, jostling the reins.

 

If she had any chance of getting back into the house and putting the gown back without being caught while also making sure dinner was on the stove, she couldn't afford to waste any time. Arnold's palfrey slowed, and turned to see what was going on.

 

“Hold on, I'll get down and lead her,” Arnold offered, gracefully hopping down from his horse.

 

Unfortunately, the sudden movement was something the rouncey liked even less than the tree stump. She chattered and then bolted, speeding past Arnold, the palfrey and the offensive stump down the road, kicking up great chunks of mud as she went.

 

Ordinarily, Helga would have had no problem getting her horse back under control. But ordinarily she wouldn't have been riding a horse while wearing someone else's fine brocade gown. Gritting her teeth, she clung on as the rouncey thundered through the bracken, hoping she'd burn herself out before she could get too muddy.

 

Helga was right. She did burn herself out.

 

Unfortunately, she did so by skidding to a halt in the middle of an enormous puddle, knocking the dark water high enough to spatter across Helga's coif. When Arnold managed to catch up with them, she was flat against the horse's neck, groaning loudly.

 

…..

 

Arnold couldn't believe he'd gone from knocking on a convent's door to _this._

 

If the royal priest knew, he'd insist on Arnold giving a substantial tithe to the church and observing his prayers day and night. Even _looking_ at a woman's undergarments drying in the sun should have been grounds for going straight to hell.

 

Not that Helga seemed to care for Arnold's immortal soul. She insisted on getting her clothes clean before she went home; apparently, her father was very strict and would punish her severely for coming home covered in mud. That he could understand, but why she felt the need to take off _everything_ was a mystery. Her chemise hadn't even been that muddy.

 

_So that's what a kirtle looks like..._

 

Keeping his eyes trained on the clothes was the lesser of two evils, and was a testament to how much Helga trusted him, given their talk earlier of liberties in the forest. He had given her his cloak to wrap in once she was finished bathing in the river, and built a fire nearby. Nothing else he could do beyond that besides keeping his eyes to himself.

 

“Water's bloody freezing,” he heard her say behind him.

 

Her teeth were chattering, and he heard the swish of his cloak being wrapped around her. Was it safe to turn around...?

 

“Are you decent?” he asked, cautiously.

 

“Probably not, no,” she shot back. “I'm not as naked as I was a minute ago, though.”

 

He risked turning around and sat by the fire, across from her. The cloak covered her neatly from head to toe, but it still felt rather scandalous. Her hair was loose, folded in damp waves to her waist. Her wrists and ankles were uncovered, shockingly white compared to her sunkissed hands and face. He had never seen a woman in such a natural state before, except maybe in paintings.

 

“This is so strange...” he laughed quietly to himself. “You...you're like some forest creature.”

 

“I think I'd much prefer that,” she groaned. “I wouldn't have to worry so much about mud.”

 

“It's curious,” he prodded. “Most women I've known would scream if I saw their hair loose...and yet here you are almost completely unclothed and you don't care? Even with a man nearby?”

 

“You're not the type to do anything untoward,” she shrugged. “Or if I've misjudged you, I think I have a good chance of fighting you off. No offense, but you look like you bruise like a peach.”

 

An insult, and yet she managed to make it sound like a compliment.

 

_You're so very kind, to have come all this way to visit me._

 

An echo of a previous meeting with Princess Lila came up, unbidden. At the time he had been delighted with her praise, until he heard her say it to every other envoy. He might as well have been some stranger.

 

 _She's a Spanish Catholic, Arnold,_ he heard Gerald groan in his mind. _Come on, what did you expect?_

 

Helga was loosely braiding her hair, but made no move to tie it up for her coif. Watching her twist the little coils of hair was fascinating, strangely intimate. Lila had once excused herself from a meeting because a hairpin had come loose.

 

“How are things with your convent girl?” Helga asked, as if she could tell he was thinking of Lila. “Did you get past the border?”

 

“Um, well, we've decided to stick with written correspondence for now,” he stammered.

 

“Ouch,” Helga laughed. “Well, I hope her penmanship is good, at least.”

 

“What about you? How would your suitors like the idea of you sitting with your hair down in front of some man you're not engaged to?”

 

“What suitors?” she laughed. “All the suitors are my sister's, I have none.”

 

That wasn't unusual. Many families insisted on the older sisters being wed before entertaining for the younger.

 

“I'll probably marry some hermit somewhere far away and eventually become a swamp witch,” she continued airily. “Or maybe just the swamp witch part without the marriage. I like that idea better.”

 

“No marriage at all?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. The girls at court spoke of nothing but marriage.

 

“The first thing any husband of mine will do is insist I wear that awful coif,” she replied. “No thank you. Swamp witch it is. Right, turn around, my clothes look dry.

 

He didn't turn quite quick enough, and between the cloak dropping and the chemise being pulled on he caught a split second glimpse of her body. Mortified, Arnold glared hard at the ground, willing away the blurry image that had been printed across his eyes.

 

He was blushing when she said it was okay for him to look. She hadn't bothered lacing the stomacher, and her chemise and kirtle poked out between the stays, and her hair was hanging down below the untied coif. It was...charming.

 

“Could you take the horses back? I'm going to go through the forest from here,” she asked.

 

“Of course,” he answered, hoping he didn't look too red in the face. “Is your home far from here?”

 

“Not too far,” she replied, looking into the distance. “A mile, maybe a mile and a half.”

 

“Good. I should like to call on you sometime. Maybe Tuesday?” he asked.

 

“Call on me?” she spluttered. “Why?”

 

“I like talking with you,” Arnold shrugged. “It's refreshing. And I still owe you for rescuing me.”

 

“You rented me a horse...”

 

“You saved my life.”

 

Making a little whine under her breath, she nodded.

 

“Tuesday. But it has to be before dawn.”

 

“Before dawn it is.”

 

…..

 

All the way home, she worried.

 

Nobody besides her was ever up before dawn, but the family could still surprise her. And she couldn't very well have him in the house, could she? She was still fretting when she stopped at the hermitage to change into her old gown, filling Phoebe in on what had gone on.

 

“You're lucky he's a gentleman,” Phoebe scolded lightly. “If it was anyone else...”

 

“I know, I know,” Helga groaned.

 

“You need to be more careful! You know Helmsly is still skulking around...”

 

“Pheebs, stop,” she said, cutting her off. “It's fine. Everything's fine.”

 

Phoebe held off with a little unhappy sigh.

 

“I just worry, you know that.”

 

Helga ran back to the house once she was back in her normal clothes. She still had time to put dinner together...

 

...except that she ran smack into Bob.

 

“Where the hell have you been?” he snarled at her.

 


End file.
